My Other Monster is a Warhound
by Norwest
Summary: What's it like to drive a Titan?
1. Chicks Dig Giant Robots

_My first thought when I read about Titans in 40k was "Ohmygodiwantone," and my second thought was "what's it like to drive it?" This fic is my try at answering that question._

Sex has _nothing_ on it.

Good food, music, fighting, screwing…nothing beats getting jacked in. In an instant, you leave your fragile flesh-body behind, your senses expand until you can see a single molecule a click away, your heart 'beats' with searing-hot plasma, your skin becomes adamantium, your voice reaches halfway around a world. You can destroy buildings with a thought, and wipe out a superhuman Marine with a careless step. Jacking in makes you feel like you could take on the Emperor, or make the Heresy go away by giving Horus a good kick to the crotch with your 10-meter legs.

That's the first problem of Titan-driving. When I jack into Vicky, I jack into a machine-spirit with four centuries spent heretic-hunting and the attitude to back it up. Whoever says that machine-spirits don't exist obviously never tried out for a Titan crew; handling a Titan in battle is like trying to keep a hungry Bloodletter for a pet. A Titan's heart beats with pride and battle-lust, and jacking in puts that right between your ears. Pride has killed more Titans than Chaos ever will, and Warhounds are especially aggressive. _Invictorus _is not a dignified lady like a Warlord or Imperator Titan: Vicky wants to get dirty and kill her enemies up close. Like all women, she's good at getting what she wants.

_Everything OK up there, boss?_ I smile, hearing Corrun's thought through the link. I'm a Princeps, the #1 of a Titan, the crazy bastard who wears an angry house to work. My Moderatii keep me from rampaging while I do my best "Space Marine SMASH!" impersonation. Corrun and Thade are my 'rats, and they're good at their jobs. In what's left of the Legio Gryphonicus, the most experienced 'rats get paired with the rawest Princeps aboard the Warhound 'Scout' Titans (seriously, how could a 15-meter god-machine be a scout?). Corrun and Thade each have over fifty years of experience in Titans, forty-five more than me. Without them, Vicky and I would have been a wreck years ago. _All good, just the usual jitters_, I send back.

_Sure thing, boss._ Corrun's loud, Thade's quiet. It fits their jobs well: Corrun maintains weapons and motivators, Thade handles autosenses and vox-chatter. Osirus the cogboy keeps me on my feet, and I keep _Invictorus_ in check. A Titan is a group effort: it's four guys and a metal broad bringing stompy death onto a battlefield. With my mind settled again, I glance out at the battlefield. I'm the spearpoint of a 2-Titan 'Hound pack, leading a charge into Hive Tempestus. Chaos took power here several months ago and the Imperium has come calling. I don't know why the Hounds were called in, and right now, I don't care. I 'think' at Osirus, _I'm ready. Wake her up_.

For once in his life, Osirus acts like a typical cogboy, and without a word he 'wakes' _Invictorus_ to full life. My thoughts are overwhel_friendly contacts spotted, 210-300 degrees. Possible enemy contact 97 degrees, low elevation. Adjust primary weapon to fire on target, checking distance…distance 110 meters. Ready to_ "Tomas! Weapons hold!" _Oops._

The shout pulls me from the Titan's battle-thoughts, and I clear my human throat before answering. "Sorry. She hasn't fired for several months and-" "I know she's ready to go, but keep it together, alright?"

An entire sentence? Thade must've been really spooked there. _Sorry_, I tell him quietly, slowly extending my senses outward again. At 97 degrees _range unchanged, wind minimal, Vulcan mega-bolter prepped for burst fire_ there was a kid, looking with awe at the god-machines outside his ruined hive. _Oops._

Swimming in my autosenses, I'm surprised by the vox crackling to life: "Titans, advance when ready. Primaris formation, weapons free. Emperor guide your aim." Showtime! _Invictorus_ feels my excitement, and she literally bounces as I begin the advance. Corrun gives me a mental laugh as Vicky springs forward, ready to kill the frak out of some poor cultist.

I'm less happy about it all. With _Invictorus_ on the move, the sensor contacts are flooding in. Buildings, rubble, possible movement, _confirmed enemy contact, 43 degrees, range 50 meters _aaaand now it's shooty time. I let Corrun 'see' the enemies; he steadies Vicky's aim on _warning! Missile launcher spotted, firing inferno cannon, 2-second blast_!

An inferno cannon is similar to a flamethrower – the difference is size. Even Land Raiders melt under an inferno cannon. The cultists manage a couple screams before the fire turns them to coarse ash, the backdraft collapsing the hab-unit they were hiding in. I'm already looking past them to _warning! Explosives spotted, possible ambush_ uh-oh.

Thade, as usual, is already dealing with the situation. I slowly bring Vicky to a halt, her voice growling at me to keep running, while Thade directs a Sentinel group to scout ahead. The Sentinels spot the trap and open up with autocannons, the shells detonating the homemade explosives buried under the roadway. With an almighty roar, the road ahead disappears in a cloud of ash; I resist the urge to blink, knowing that human urges like that make Thade's sensor picture go bonkers.

Still, I jump slightly when the next explosion goes off, Vicky's senses translating the twitch into a 5-meter shuffle. The Administratum block next to me groans _danger from falling debris, recommend movement_, the explosion inside the office building destroying key support columns and sending a 50-meter hunk of rockcrete plunging towards my girl's head.

I'm already on the move, with Vicky's autosenses looking for a good escape route _continue at 47 degrees 150 meters, no enemy contacts spotted_. I spare a look behind me as I keep running, seeing the friendly Sentinels following me at full speed. One vanishes under the collapsing building, while another is sent sprawling. Damn. I can see movement in the visible Sentinel's cockpit _enemy contacts, estimated 50 humanoids, small arms present_ …and the mob that'd been sheltering behind the former building.

Corrun's already prepping the inferno cannon for another burn as Vicky and I slow _continuing lateral movement, area clear_ and turn towards the cultists. My commanders would want me to leave the Sentinel driver behind, bait for the horde to get into inferno range. Screw them. I used to drive a Mars-pattern, and I don't leave a Sentinel man behind if I can't help it. Besides, my bosses can't do anything about it once I'm in jacked in. Every Legionnaire knows what happens when you pull a Princeps away from his girl during a fight.

_10x zoom, focus on friendly contact_ and I can see the Sentinel driver pull himself free and begin crawling slowly towards me. Frak. Corrun projects the inferno cannon's expected fire arc onto my vision; the Sentinel driver would be toast. I mutter a quick prayer, _Invictorus_ projecting it over the external vox, and move. A 'Hound can't break the sound barrier, but it damn well feels like it at a full sprint. The horde's almost reached the Sentinel pilot _friendly contact 34.43 meters away, enemy contacts 26.32 meters_ time to change tactics. Seeing a hunk of rockcrete that's well-placed for a springboard, I step down and leap.

A walker design is useful in urban combat for its versatility. A walker can go places where a tank can't: past roadblocks, through rubble, and (very occasionally) into the air. Vicky's 15-meter frame is airborne for less than a second, but in that time she sails over the astonished Sentinel driver and into the equally astonished cultists. A dozen vanish into bloody pulp under her legs, and the rest are sent flying by the impact._Threat assessment: minimal_ I stomp again, mashing the suicidally brave cultists who thought I looked kill-able, while the two remaining Sentinels roar forward, their guns mopping up the remnants.

_Tomas, that was completely AWESOME and you will never, NEVER do that again!_ Corrun 'yells' at me through the mind-link. Falling back on my usual defense, I mentally project a smiley face, drowning him out.

Corrun resorts to punching me in the leg; Vicky translates my leg's response into a kick that nearly scraps a Leman Russ, the tank swerving at the last moment to avoid Vicky's spiky feet. As expected, the vox crackles again: "_Invictorus_, cease your current activities and follow the prescribed battle-plan!"

My boss, Titan Master Magrigge (Emperor's balls, what an overblown title!), had his sense of humor amputated three decades ago (and with cogboys, that might even be literal). I learned Ultima Segmentum ship-lingo just to annoy him, and I always speak to Magrigge in it: "Yarrrrrr! We be pillagin' and plunderin' soon, Admiral!"

"Just shut up and kill something already!" he yells back, before cutting the vox-link. It's good advice (for once), and I turn Vicky's senses outward, seeing _enemy contact appx. 500 meters, anomalous energy signatures detected, threat assessment unknown_ uh-oh. In Titan battle-speak, "anomalous" usually means "warp-spawn." Thade's voxing out _Invictorus_'s threat assessments to the rest of the battlegroup as I ready the shields.

A Titan that "goes bad" is every Legion's worst nightmare, and it's happened more often than they care to admit. The Mechanicus installs a ridiculous amount of wards and purity seals on every loyalist Titan, and although I've 'fixed' some seals (a 'd' can become an 'l' pretty easily, so many of Vicky's purity seals defend against the evils of 'Warp-lemons'), when given psychic strength the wards keep the Warp at a safe distance. Then again, this is the Warp – no distance is truly 'safe.' That's why I insisted on bringing insurance.

My insurance is already moving, _inferno cannon at 91.72% capacity, no target fixed_. I share a philosophy with the Emperor-yappers: when in doubt, kill it with fire. The other 'Hounds are swinging towards the Warp-sighting, but they're still out of weapons range. I swing Vicky's ridiculously long snout at the threat, prepping to _warning! Anomalous projectiles spotted, impact projected in _THUMP.

* * *

REVIEWS FOR THE REVIEW GOD! CRITIQUES FOR THE CRITIQUE THRONE!


	2. A Meeting with Papa Nurgle

Tech-Priest Osirus let out a noise you almost could've mistaken for a sigh. "If I still had my old eyes-"

"Yeah, why'd you lose them anyway?"

"-I'd be giving you a pretty good evil eye about now." I deserved it.

Vicky was…hurting. The Nurglite rot had eaten away most of her motivators on her left leg, and had caused massive damage system-wide. She could see and shoot, but not much else. I was still recovering and the details were sketchy, but apparently an Inquisitor was involved somehow. I may not have much (or any) common sense, but I know enough to stop asking questions once someone mentions the "I" word.

"I shall begin Litanies #7 and #13 of Major Motivator Repair, but don't expect much," Osirus commented. "This is beyond what I know, and the Legion Command has already ordered me to improvise." I glanced at him, surprised; the Adeptus Mechanicus as a whole hated that other "I" word, along with "initiative" and "intelligence." Of course, cantankerous and barely-understood god-machines need some improvisation to keep functioning, and the Titan Legions' importance to the Imperium and Mechanicum meant that they were generally free of Inquisitorial attention. Safe from accusations of heresy, we attracted free-thinking Techpriests like cheap whores attract soldiers.

I ran Osirus's words over in my head. Strange, that we'd be kept on the field after suffering such damage. Maybe the rumored Inquisitor… "Hmm…if we can keep Vicky's legs under her, Magrigge'll deploy us to a quiet sector instead of roasting us all slowly. See what you can do, and try asking _Honorum_'s crew for help if you're short-handed. I'll be in the bar getting drunk."

One of Osirus' mechadendrites snaked over my shoulders. "Your Titan's spirit suffered heavy pain today. Get some rest; you need it."

I shivered, despite the heat. When Vicky'd been hit…

* * *

_Warning! Multiple impacts detected on left leg, lower motivators_ _A through C inoperative, _Frakfrakfrak!_ impacts detected on shield bearing 40 degrees _"Tomas, what's going on? Autosenses are out-" "-under attack by Chaos rot, requesting fire support at grid point-"

_holyEmperorhelpmeimscared adjusting center-of-gravity to compensate for damage, repairs needed_ "Tomas! Pull yourself together!" I opened my flesh-eyes to see Thade's formerly well-hidden laspistol in my face, his trigger finger steady. He'd done the same to Vicky's old Princeps and I knew he'd do the same to me.

A Titan's 'rats have two key jobs: keep the Princeps from going nuts, and get him out of the mind-link when he does. A Moderati has to be tougher than a Penal Legion Commissar: could _you_ shoot a dear friend and live with yourself after feeling his death-pain through the mind-link? There's a reason a Titan has two Moderatii: one pulls the trigger if the other can't. Thade and Corrun took turns dealing with the Princeps that Vicky chewed up, and it was Thade's turn for me. They'd have to shut Vicky down if they shot me, but that'd be better than a berserk Titan.

_Multiple contacts detected, defensive action recommended_ "I'm here, I'm here, we've got inbound Corrun help me out here." Corrun, dependable as ever, responded immediately: "On it, boss." Thade lowered the laspistol and responded quietly, "Arty's inbound to deal with the locals. Command says hold still or they shoot."

_Damage detected at knee joint, immobility expected in 5.23 minutes_ peering through Vicky's blurring autosenses, I could see my fellow 'Hound _Honorum_ standing off at half a click, her weapons pointed straight at my girl. Frak.

Diving into Vicky's self-repair diagnostics, I read the incoming reports with butterflies in my stomach. God-Emperor, this was bad _full immobilization expected in 4.59 minutes, foreign substance detected above knee joint, 68.36% of all systems in affected area not responding, corrupted data detected in data steam. _The butterflies got organized and started tap-dancing; Vicky was losing herself completely to the rot."Frak! Frak! Frak! Thade, isolate all systems connected to the affected area, shut everything down or we're done!"

The Legio Invigilata had lost a Warlord Titan to Chaos this same way about three hundred years back. _Tempestorus_ had been supporting a Guard push, came too close to the front lines, and received some nasty gook on her cockpit from an extra-ugly demon. The stuff ignored her shields and infected her in minutes, and she turned her guns onto the men she'd been supporting, nearly wiping them out. The Navy purified _Tempestorus_…by orbital-scouring the area with lance strikes and atomics.

I'd seen the holos of Princeps cut out from their corrupted Titans. Emperor help me, I didn't want to end up like that. I promised the old bastard I'd buy a round for him on that golden crapper of his if he helped me out. _Warning! Data corruption detected in diagnostics system, anomalous _"Ow! Frak! Shut it down! Shut it all down!"

Thade, face creased in concentration, yelled back, "Screw you! We shut her down, the artillery slags us! Get back in there and keep her going till it's clear!" I wanted to curse him out, grab his gun, run, do anything but go back to my girl. Gritting my teeth, I dived back in.

The Titan mind-link maps the Titan's systems to similar human ones. My heart rate spikes, Vicky's plasma reactor heats up. I blink, she auspex-pings. I cross my legs, she…tries to. The link, though, goes both ways. Right now, Vicky's body was being taken over by Chaos, and I felt every moment of it.

I didn't feel pain, I felt what pain wanted to be when it grew up. Vicky was dying, and I was going with her. Shutting down every non-essential system, I pushed all available power to Vicky's single void-shield. The shield drained weapons, autosenses, motivators, even life support – the lumens over my flesh-eyes dimmed and fizzled. _Inbound projectiles, impact projected in 3.4 seconds_ and right on time, the artillery showed.

* * *

"She'll kill me, you know." I was drunk. REALLY drunk. I was drinking with the Sentinel men and their crews, and I'd been out of practice. It'll be a sane day in the Eye of Terror before the Adeptus Mechanicus makes a decent beer or amasec, and since I hadn't been able to pull my disappearing-to-a-bar act while shipboard, I'd been dry for months now.

One of the armorers spoke up: "Hah. I've been married for five years now, and I know what you mean. They'll take every throne you send them and run off with another man." I shook my head. "Don't have one of those. I only got Vicky, and she'll kill me for good."

The armorer was confused. "Whaddya mean? The cogboys keep you Titan types all safe and sound, not like us ground-pounders. How'll your machine spirit mess you up?"

My head still ached from the pain I'd taken earlier that day. "No, not like that. See, you all are lucky, you get to deal with your girls through levers and prayers." The group nodded; they all were familiar with the basic Litanies that you needed to keep a Sentinel going. "But my girl, I hook myself right up to her. When Vicky goes through hell out there, I get to feel it. All of it."

* * *

As a former Sentinel jock, I'd called in my share of artillery. You never quite get used to it, the sheer _kaboom_ of it all. The ground rolls underfoot, dirt and shrapnel fly, and the world disappears in a haze of grey from the impacts. As leg infantry, you hug the dirt and pray to the Emperor to save your sorry self. In a Sentinel, the artillery's doubly dangerous because the impacts alone can send you flying, so barrage time means "ohcrapohcrap runawayreallyfast!."

I barely even noticed the fire outside the shield. I was holding onto myself in the middle of the storm, trying to keep the shield up and the rot out. The Nurglite rot was nasty stuff – it submerged itself into Vicky's subroutines, quickly turning them into gibberish. I'd already lost motor control, weapons were out, and the rot was still coming. I kept concentrating on the shield, maintaining it against artillery rounds that came awfully close. A Warlord Titan, even a Reaver, could shrug off an attack like this, but my 'tiny' little Warhound was shaken pretty heavily by it.

_Data corruption detected in reactor systems _and my heart rate spiked again. If the rot reached the reactor then Bad Stuff would happen. My flesh-hands clenched from the stress and _corruption no longer present in reactor systems_ what?

It was hard to believe. Somehow, the rot in _Invictorus_' reactor systems had been wiped clean. The answer hit me like a brick: when in doubt, Kill It With Fire! My increased heart rate had beaten the rot back from the reactor area, but the corruption would return until it – or I – was dead. Diverting as much power from the shields as I could spare, I send pure energy straight into the rot.

* * *

"So you're saying that the linky-thingy is gonna kill you?" The Sentinel drivers didn't quite believe me. I couldn't blame them; when I'd seen the mind-link for the first time my first reaction had been "groxshit."

"Damn straight. A Princeps normally don't last long in my 'Hound." They weren't convinced.

"So, what happens then? You get sent on to a Warlord or something?" I pulled my glass closer and took another sip. "No, it's hard to move on to a Warlord when you're dead and all."

The Sentinel pilot blinked. "Dead? How?"

I tapped the mind-link implant at the base of my skull. "Vicky's got extra data flow going through the link. Happens with her on any link, with any person. Too much data flow through the link means too much heat. Too much heat inside my skull means dead dead dead. Hell, the reason I even drive a Titan is 'cuz Vicky kills me slower than she kills anyone else. I'm what, the fifth Princeps that she's had in the last few decades?" The pilot nodded. "So how long do you have?"

I shook my head, gazing into my reflection in the glass. "Dunno. Maybe tomorrow, maybe a couple years, maybe a decade, maybe never. No one's real sure how it works anymore, so new Titans or ones that get gutted and fixed up kill their Princeps pretty quick. Vicky's one of the worst that way."

The heads around the flimsy table nodded. The Sentinel driver that I'd saved raised his drink. "Alright, I want a toast. To living!"

We all raised our glasses high, as my guards closed in to haul me back to my girl. "To living!"

* * *

I was burning. Most of Vicky's systems weren't designed to handle the raw power that I was pumping through them, and the link meant I felt the whole thing. Still, I'd got the infection on the run. I rebooted the diagnostics program and _lower motivators inoperative, Vulcan mega-bolter inoperative, inferno cannon at 92.3% capacity, autosenses undamaged_.

The barrage had mostly lifted, leaving behind a moonscape of shattered hive-city behind it. As I peered at the rubble, though, I saw something big, ugly, and green heave itself out from under a shattered building. _2x zoom_ and I recognized it: the same Big Ugly that'd hit me before. It was oozing towards Vicky, probably expecting to take charge of a brand-new Nurglite Titan by now.

_Inferno cannon charged, firing 5-second blast and eat shit and die!_ 5 seconds of inferno blast basically defines overkill. The blaze, bright as a newborn sun, hit the thing dead-on. As the Big Ugly melted, though, it threw another nasty-looking something at Vicky. With her legs offline, I couldn't do anything but watch. The rot wasn't even slowed by her shields and impacted above the cockpit. Frak.

I immediately sent power through the cockpit systems, upsetting delicate calibrations and throwing Corrun's and Thades' instruments haywire. It wasn't enough. The rot was fully psychically charged, concentrated, and corrupting armor that I couldn't burn with plasma. In less than a minute it would reach the cockpit, and it'd all be over. Corrun and Thade looked at me. We shrugged in unison; there wasn't much else to do at that point.

I began removing Vicky's reactor safeties, while Corrun began the Titan overload sequence. Every Titan has a built-in reactor overload setting, in case you have a nearby target that absolutely positively has to die. Thade voxed out our current situation and warned the battlegroup.

Titan Master Magrigge got on the vox: "_Invictorus,_ maintain current position and pause self-destruct." He sounded scared; time to rattle him. "Yarr, cap'n, what be holdin' up yonder 'splosion?" He snapped back, "Treat a member of the God-Emperor's sacred Inquisition with more respect, Princeps!"

Corrun had been listening in: "Ooh, an Inquisitor? Let's get him into the blast radius!" A new voice joined us on the vox-channel, saying dryly, "I'm feeling generous. Consider your wish granted."

Crazily enough, I saw an Aquila Lander approaching Vicky at top speed, eagle-shaped wings still glowing red from re-entry. As the rot began corrupting the ceiling over my head, I closed my eyes, mentally removing the final reactor safeties. If I was going to die, I wanted to make a big kaboom – and hey, who doesn't want to take an Inquisitor with them when they go? _Warning! Impulse control inoperative!_aaaand frak. "Corrun, the link got shut down! Manual self-destruct now!"

The lander approached, decelerating to a hover directly over Vicky's head.

The rot vanished.


	3. Off The Line

"You expect me to believe that?"

"Absolutely."

The Guard colonel snorted, but drained his shot anyway. "Alright, my turn. By the Emperor, I've never…gotten fired on by friendly arty."

Corrun, Thade, and I shotgunned our shots of moonshine alongside most of the others at the table. With a quiet week expected and Vicky still down for repairs, we and the Guard brass were playing a no-holds-barred game of "By the Emperor, I've never..." So far, I'd already found that the regimental commissar had a thing for midgets and that the colonel…well, let's save that for later.

I peered into the bottle of moonshine that we'd 'acquired' from one of the sergeants. Rath hath its privileges, and most of those privileges involve alcohol somehow. "By the Emperor, I've never shot a man with any gun smaller than an autocannon."

Everyone clustered around the table groaned and pounded their shots. One of the lieutenants looked a little shocked. "Really? Absolutely, honest-to-Him never?" "Never never never," I responded, pouring myself another shot. "I know enough not to look down the pointy side of a lasgun and that's about it."

The commissar raised his glass. "By the Emperor, I've never shot a commissar." Everyone around the table quieted, taken by surprise. We all knew about fragging, but Throne, that isn't the sort of thing you say around a commissar. Hell, even if you _are_ the commissar.

Thade drained his glass.

Thade looked up from pouring his next shot to see the entire table looking at him, somewhat stunned. "What? You all wanted to."

Several moments of silence passed before the colonel (Fowler, I think) cleared his throat loudly. "So tell me, Tomas, why do you call _Invictorus_ 'your girl?'"

A new topic! Something that wouldn't get me shot! "Well, the cogboys don't like it when I call her 'my bi-"

"Oh. Well, why don't you call her 'your lady?'"

"An Emperor-class, a Warlord, or a Reaver – those are 'ladies,' at least most of them. A 'Hound? Never."

Colonel Fowler grinned. "So, size _does_ matter with you Legion types?"

"Yup, and smaller means better."

"Hmm, why's that?"

"Us Warhounds get to leave home more often. The cogboys almost never risk the Emperors, and even the Warlords barely ever get to go out and play."

If the colonel could grin any more, he'd split his face. "Well, that reminds me…by the Emperor, I've never set foot on a forge world."

The Legionnaires all groaned and drank.

* * *

Colonel Fowler and I were leaning on each other as we stumbled towards the officer's quarters. We'd finished the usual drinking songs twenty minutes ago, and after 'sampling' two bottles of amesac, we'd devolved to children's rhymes. I believe we were singing "The Tracks On The Land Raider Crush The Heretic" when the explosion hit us.

Normally, an artillery round won't do too much to you when you're in a good trench. As long as the sappers have dug the sides properly and put down some duckboards, you won't lose your footing. Now was not normal times, and the good colonel and I ended up ass-down in the bottom of the trench.

I looked around. Standing was going to be tough, especially with more artillery rounds shaking the trench and our outbound arty only making things worse. "Umm, can you get on your feet?" The colonel struggled, fighting a losing battle against gravity. "Nope."

Our amesac-clogged brains had some trouble with this, but after a couple minutes of trying we had managed to stand again. I looked around. "Oh. We're pretty close to the front lines. Did we take a wrong turn or something?"

"Looks like. Hey, what's that smell?"

A jolt of adrenaline hit me, clearing away enough drunk haze for me to stand up. I knew that smell – rot, rot, and more rot.

The first Nurglite cultist was pulling himself over the trench parapet as I scrambled to my feet. The man…wasn't really a man anymore. Oh, he still had the basics – head, arms, legs, the works – except that every exposed patch of skin was covered in yuck and eww. Boils, sores, cancers you could play scrumball with, and the smell to match it.

Face-to-face with a servant of the Great Enemy, I'm proud to say that I did my duty as Princeps of the mighty Titan _Invictorus_ and as a servant of both the Adeptus Mechanicus and of the Emperor.

I ran like frak.

What? Don't look at me like that! If I'd gotten myself killed in a trench instead of in Vicky's command chair, the cogboys would've invented some way to bring me back from the dead just so they could kill me again. Besides which, I'm a Sentinel driver; running away is about half of what I did (the other half was "moving to contact" which translates from military-ese to "run away once the enemy's spotted you").

I considered my options as I ran. I could try to reach Vicky, but Osirus was keeping her safe (he literally never slept), and he wasn't about to open the door during the middle of an attack. Besides, the Vulcan mega-bolter is a great weapon for dealing with "enemies in buildings," not so much for "enemies within 100m of friendlies." Reinforcements would be arriving soon, even if the cultists all decided that today was the right day to go see Papa Nurgle in person. I just had to hold them off until - ooh, Tarantulas!

I make a habit of snoring through briefings (the louder the better!), but I remembered something about Tarantula sentry guns being placed to cover the front trench lines. Looking back, I could see a nearby Tarantula, its guns silent and the chassis twitching occasionally. _Frak_.

That twitch indicated that the threat-recognition cogitator was busted, and would need to be reset by a Techpriest before the gun would be any use. I ran for it anyway, lungs bursting as my feet slapped the shifting boards underfoot. Me and exercise don't get along too well, and I've never been fit, even at the best of times.

I slid to a halt behind the hulking machine, my heartbeat pounding in my chest. I could already hear a hum from the machine's cogitator as it tried to think its way past an error in its programming. I steadied myself, closed my eyes, and extended my peculiar talent.

My girl Vicky's feelings generally run from "battle-lust" to "sheer anger." Even compared to her, though, this Tarantula felt like a retarded child. My work consisted of saying in machine-speak, "Bad guy there. Shoot him. Bad guy there. Shoot him." The work was simple, but after about the fifteenth repetition I could feel the error disappear, erased by my new programming. Pulling my consciousness away, I shook myself to clear my head and nearly collided with the commissar.

He stared down at me, eyes wide. By the looks of him, he'd seen the glow that always seems to show up when I use my peculiar talent. I could see reason and faith warring in his head, as rational thought and "abhor the psyker" took sides and fought pitched battles. I could see him rationally considering my actions and my apparent motivations, and mentally debating the consequences of any action he took.

Then faith took over, his eyes went blank, and he reached for his laspistol. I jumped on him.

I am whipcord-lean, body wasted by the exertions of running a mildly-carniverous Titan. When I collided with the commissar, I barely even staggered him. Of course, my hands clawing at his eyes made him jump back, laspistol firing into the ground. I pressed my attack, grabbing for the gun and his throat simultaneously.

We fell down together into the trench, which turned out to be a good thing. The Tarantula, which I'd just finished re-programming, didn't have any sort of "don't shoot friendlies" protocols now. As we fell, its twin heavy bolters opened up just over our heads, tearing meter-wide chunks out of the other side of the trench.

I got a hold of the commissar's gun, but missed his throat entirely as he threw a blind haymaker. Forced back, I yanked at his gun hand, twisting the commissar's pinky back to the breaking point and making him howl in pain.

He kicked, hitting me in the knee and dropping me to the ground. I tried to twist his laspistol away, desperately shoving myself away with my good leg. The commissar punched me directly in the face, wrenching his laspistol away as I fell back.

I shoved the commissar up, trying to get his head in the Tarantula's line of fire. He hit me with his knee, headbutting me before I could react. I fell, vision blurred. As I struggled to re-orient myself, the commissar stepped back and aimed his weapon.

I looked down the barrel of the commissar's laspistol. His lips moved – an insult? An apology? I'll never know.

His head exploded.

Corrun lowered the autogun, rushing up to me. The Tarantula fell silent, its simple machine spirit finally recognizing "bad guy dead." As the Tarantula turned to engage the remnants of the Nurglite cultists, Corrun twisted the commissar's body to face towards the front line. Thade appeared, gloved hands dragging a mangled cultist. Corrun gingerly wrapped the corpse's fingers around the autogun, pointing it in the commissar's direction.

Thade walked over as Corrun continued arranging the scene. "Use this next time," he stated bluntly, offering me a small object. It was a holdout knife – a shank small enough to hide in clothing or in a boot, but still lethal at close range.

"Thanks," I muttered, slipping the shank into my left boot. Corrun jogged up, having arranged the area to his liking. He announced, "Alright, boss, we were never here. The cultists shot the commissar, and some Guardsmen finished them off. Let's go." We slipped away, heading to the Titan crew's quarters.

...you know, I never heard the commissar's name. Funny how that sort of thing goes.


	4. Going Back for Seconds

Another day, another doohickey. "Check gyro no. 23, it still doesn't feel right."

Osiris made adjustments. "Now?"

I tensed, trying to 'feel' the difference. Finding the general status of human-ish things like arms and legs was all well and good, but Vicky's gimbals and other whatsits were harder to suss out. "Feels better, the leg's much more stable. Keep up the magic."

"Remember, you must keep a watchful eye on your so-called 'insurance,' as the cooling system still hasn't stabilized yet. Push your faithful weapons to their limits, and they will reward you with failure," Osirus responded. Poor man - he was a poet at heart, a humanist pushed into the least human order in the Imperium. It's no wonder that he ended up in a Titan legio, which is mostly free of orthodox Mechanicus interference. I mean, when was the last time _you_ ever met a cogboy with a sense of humor?

I was startled out of my reverie by the sudden vox crackle: "Invictorus, advance north-northwest to contact and report enemy strength." Crap. In an age of satellite and aerial holos, ground scouting missions to places the satellites couldn't see usually ended badly.

I cleared my throat: "Arr, cap'n, our steed be still under the weather an' she be perhaps a wee bit unready-"

"Your mission remains the same, Invictorus. Find the enemy, and tell me exactly what he is." I recognized the voice: the Inquisitor. Doublecrap.

"Aye-aye, cap'n, we'll find ye yer bogeyman," I responded. If I was going to die in this damn Chaos-infested hive, then I was going to do it in (my own crazy) style.

Vicky, of course, didn't mind. To her, any chance to kill an enemy was a good one. We trotted ahead, Vicky's feet digging chunks out of the shell-pocked road under her feet.

* * *

_Warning! Projectile detected, impact due in 0.37 sec-_ My reality Shifts as the first shell impacts Vicky's shields. It's an infantry rocket launcher, the frag warhead doing little more than rattling Thade's sensor suite. Corrun projects the inferno cannon's fire arc over the rocket's origin, but I mentally wave him off. _Leg servos functioning at 47.2% of full capacity_ Vicky stomps over the rubble that the cultists were hiding behind, her feet turning them into bloody mash. The Titans share a dirty little secret with tankers: against infantry, we kill as many of them by crushing and grinding as we do with our weapons.

The rocket doesn't rattle me, but the Conqueror shell does. The shell detonates against my shields _shield at 84.3%, recharging in 17.2__seconds_, causing them to flicker and give out the strong stink of ozone. I spot the offender, a Conqueror-pattern Leman Russ tank with some normal-looking blue Chaos scrawls on it, as I sidestep 10 meters to dodge its lascannon beam.

Corrun arms the Vulcan mega-bolter as I swing the weapon to bear. _Firing solution plotted, 5 rounds rapid_ and the tank disintegrates as the meters-wide shells rip it to shreds. Vicky bounds toward the tank wreckage as I peer forward. I round the corner and _Warning! Unknown number of contacts spotted-_

Most people would call the group an army. Cultists branded with the blue Eye of Tzeentch advance alongside heavily warped tanks and mutants. Strange warp-beasts walk at the edges, while a quartet of power-armored giants surround another blue-armored giant carrying a crackling staff. Banners fly, drums pound, and a strange miasma obscures normal senses.

Most people would see an army. I see target practice.

The first rank of cultists disappear under a wash of flame from my inferno cannon, as my mega-bolter carves out meters-wide chunks of road surface, cultist, and daemon alike. I realize that I'm laughing as I stomp forward. THIS is what 'Hounds are for: finding the enemy with his pants down and giving him a kick to the nuts! Vicky's feet grind cultists away as I continue my mad advance. A large-ish daemon rises up to challenge me, spreading his patterned wings and bringing some staff-like weapon to bear.

I punt him. His chest is about 5 meters off the ground, so I ram Vicky's foot straight through it, aiming my smoking inferno cannon into the opening I've made while Corrun fires a low-power burn. _Heat increase detected, caution advised_ Vicky can stand some heat, but this ugly mother-frakker can't. Even as his form shifts to counter the flame, the stress I've put on his body overwhelms his tenuous grasp on reality and he dissolves away.

_Unknown force detected, forward motion stalled_ and Vicky lets out her rage in her war-horns and in my head as some force halts us where we stand. I can see the sorcerer several hundred meters ahead of us, his Space Marine brethren keeping the panicking cultists at bay while he extends his staff towards my girl.

_Corrun, insurance! Now! Full power_! I can 'hear' Osirus warning me over the mind-link as Corrun warms the inferno cannon for another blast, but I'm too wrapped up in battle-lust to hear him. _Inferno cannon charged, firing__for_ effect and Vicky's flame speaks again. Like any true woman, when she's truly angry her voice is death. One of my old fiancés from before my conscription used to talk like Vicky a lot, actually- _Unknown force encountered, flame adversely affecting shield strength_ and the miniature sun of the inferno cannon is stopped by the sorcerer's 'push,' scorching Vicky's void shield and rapidly draining it _shields at 46.2%, blowout expected in 5.2 seconds_.

I want this bastard, I want his head on a pike. _shields losing power, __full burnout expected in 3.6 seconds - Burn him, burn him, burn him!_ and slowly, we do. Several things happen at once: the inferno reaches the sorcerer, crisping him on the spot, as Vicky's inferno cannon finally overheats and begins the long, slow cooling process _full cooldown __expected in 12.8 minutes_ and Thade tries to get my attention.

I ready my best mental smiley face for Thade, but I see what he's pointing out: an approaching enemy Baneblade. With my shields up and inferno cannon ready, the super-heavy tank would be a dangerous but manageable threat. Alone, with busted shields and a dysfunctional weapon?

I run away. Thade voxes out our situation as I duck behind a hab-block, the Baneblade's main gun and demolisher cannons tearing chunks out of the other side of the building. 'Hounds are built for cityfights, and Vicky's reverse-jointed legs let me duck behind available cover without much difficulty.

I can 'hear' the Baneblade's tracks squealing on the pavement. I think back to the brief glimpse I had of it and try to remember the markings _accessing primary database_: the heraldry of the hive PDF, along with the personal seal of the Hive-Governor. The honor guard vehicle, then, which means well-maintained but badly-crewed.

_Tomas, look._ Thade directs my attention to Vicky's gun-pict recording. I look to what he's pointing at: the Baneblade's lascannon bolts were blue. Butterflies start dancing in my stomach as I look back at the recording and suddenly realize what's wrong.

Daemon-possessed. Crap. A daemon vehicle laughs at physics and defies inconsequential things like 'gravity' or 'complete engine failure.' I've got no idea how a pack of cultists could get their hands on this kind of firepower, but right now I have to kill something that, according to the laws of the universe, cannot exist. Fun.

Thade voxes out the threat as I consider my options. Air support can't strike accurately in the hive itself, and Guard can't kill a demon-possessed superheavy tank without super-heavy artillery help - which would slag me as well, if that Baneblade keeps up pursuit. The other two 'Hounds in my pack are hours away, supporting the Guard's main advance into the hive. Running sounds like a good idea.

_Alright, everyone, we've found the enemy and nut-shot them. Let's get out of here, shall we?_ Corrun, Thade, and Osirus all confirm as I turn to leave the hive – as the vox-crackle starts up again. Frak. "_Invictorus_, your new orders are to destroy the enemy daemon-vehicle."

Doublefrak. "Cap'n, we be limpin' an' hurtin' from our last little scrape with yonder blackguards, an' perhaps ye might want yer flyin' machines to-"

"Kill that daemon, _Invictorus_, or don't return home," the Inquisitor says calmly over the vox-link. "Arr," I respond, my mind churning. The Inquisitor is now seriously risking a Titan, a prized possession of the Mechanicus, and threatening its crew. For him to take such a risk, he's either gotten the cogboy's permission, he's crazy (well, extra crazy; Inquisitors start out pretty nuts already), or very desperate.

Then again, Vicky and I are under suspicion of Warp-contamination. It's always possible that the Legion has already washed its hands of us. Crap.

Extending my autosenses outward, I ask Thade, _Anything_? _Nothing yet_, he responds back over the link. I'm worried. Waiting lets Vicky's shield recharge, but if that tank decides to go back deeper into the hive, where I can't reach it, the Inquisitor is probably desperate enough at this point to shoot me out of spite. I need to get this bastard's attention. Looking around me, I see how.

_Corrun, load those Kraken rounds from hopper 2 that you've been holding out. Thade, scan this 4-story Admin building on our left and find its key structural supports_. "Tomas, the daemon will definitely pick up on this," Thade warns as he sensor-pings with Vicky's auspex.

"I know. That's the idea." I rough-sketch the plan out in my head and show it to Thade. "You're frakking crazy!" he shoots back.

"Shields are still out, we're dry on flames, and we have to kill the thing or we're screwed – sanity packed up and left a while back," I respond, feeling impatient now.

Thade quiets down and continues pinging, as Corrun announces the loadout change. Once the Vulcan is lined up, I fire. Seven shells fly from Vicky's mega-bolter, penetrating deep into the squat, well-built Administratum building on my left. The building was built to withstand time and acid rain, but I doubt that the designers took "angry Titan attack" into account. The far side of the building is left unaffected, but the near side crumbles to the street, leaving a large portion of the building still standing.

* * *

_Warning! anomalous contact spotted-_ and the daemon-possessed Baneblade super-heavy tank rolls down the street, weapons swiveling. The main weapon is pointed directly ahead, sponsons aiming down the side streets, as it continues rolling towards the noises it'd just heard. It's now across from where I just was, nearing the undamaged side of the shot-up building. Every opening and crack in the tank's armor glows with an unnatural blue light, and parts of its armor writhe like a man stuffed into a too-small suit – which, in a way, it is. The daemon's face shows along the tank's main barrel, a strangely birdlike complexion that points down the main avenue. Frost follows the tank's treads, and the air around it swirls in very unnatural colors. It'd probably be creepy as hell to be at ground level about now.

Makes me glad to be up here.

_Now!_ I mind-yell, and Corrun fires three more Kraken rounds from Vicky's bolter into the battered Administratum building as I step off of it – towards the daemon-vehicle. I'd considered shooting the damn thing, but unlike regular daemons, Warp-creatures bound to material objects are tough to banish by using the More Dakka approach. Besides, I only had the ten Kraken AP rounds, not enough for something which can magic away most damage it receives, and I don't trust my infantry-killing bolter rounds to do much against Warp-enhanced tank hide. My inferno cannon could purge the tank of daemon possession if I gave it a long enough burn – assuming that it still worked. So, bolter ineffective and inferno cannon not working?

I think with my feet.

Vicky's still-recovering void shield takes the brunt of the impact as I land heavily on top of the daemon-vehicle feet first. _warning! void shields drained, recharging in_ The impact crushes the Baneblade's turret, rendering its main gun worthless and putting me outside of its secondary weapons' fire arcs.

_Thade, music_. Thade puts a good dance tune on, which warbles drunkenly out of Vicky's war-horns. I start dancing on top of the Baneblade, Vicky's feet slowly pancaking the tank with each impact. _Warning! leg servos sustaining damage-_ The daemon screams and tries to escape, but Vicky's weight keeps it pinned while I continue my routine.

As a dance goes, it was awful. I've actually put on a good tango while piloting Vicky drunk, but with near-busted leg servos I'm pretty limited. Still, the constant impacts from Vicky's feet slowly crush the tank, normal physics finally reasserting itself. I aim for weapons mounts, crushing the sponsons and demolisher cannon first. More impacts break the treads, smashing the old crew compartment and wrecking the hunter-killer missiles stored on the outside. As the daemon's strength is used up to keep the tank intact, the air returns to normal and the frost begins melting in the hot summer sun. The daemon emits a last, frustrated roar as I raise Vicky's leg to crush its engine.

Propaganda line? Holovid reference? Yarrick impersonation? "Screw it," I mutter, and drive Vicky's spiky foot through the engine block. The daemon's presence dissipates as the tank becomes too unstable to support it, and the tank's wreckage crumbles as the force that had bound it together leaves.

I turn away and address the Inquisitor: "Cap'n, we slew yonder leviathan. Give us the grog, the food, and the wenches!"

"Invictorus, return for a debrief," the Inquisitor responds. His voice still hasn't changed pitch.

_You can have my wenches_, Osirus blurts to us. It's a crappy joke, but we're all too tired to care. We went up against Chaos and came back in one piece. That's good enough for me. Laughing, I turn Vicky towards home.


	5. Now With 100 Percent More Plot!

"Frak, frak, damnitall to the Warp!" _Error: user not recognized. Only authorized users-**_

Osirus piped up: "The machine speaks, and the flesh-"

"None of your groxshit today, cogboy!" I'd reached Terminal Rage several minutes ago and was now approaching escape velocity. Vicky's Mind Impulse Unit, the part of her that makes her listen to me, was locking me out – again! "Didn't they fix this on the last flight?"

No one answered. "Alright, Osirus, manual start. Thade, call Command and get us those repairs. I don't want her leg to crap out on us again."

Thade and Osirus got to work as Corrun leaned back towards me. "Titan time, boss." I readied myself to snap at Corrun, but reconsidered abruptly. For all that I hated to hear it, he was right. Millenia-old god-machines are a lot like your grandparents: slow, unforgiving, and hard to get into and out of cars. It had been fifteen years since Vicky's previous Princeps had died, and her MIU _still_ got mixed up!

What this meant is that, over five years after he'd died, Vicky's MIU kept snapping back to her previous Princeps. Hence my current _Error: user not rec-_damnit.

I'd cooled down several minutes later with the usual hum of a functioning Titan surrounding me, as Thade attempted to raise command again. The vox crackled to life: "_Invictorus _Princeps, report to briefing room 1, HQ, Camp Apocalypse."

I grinned, mental-sending my plan to Thade. He leaned over the vox, muffling it and triggering it in bursts: "…_Invic_…experience…diff…unable…will…respond…"

The sigh was audible: "Damnit, not again, you idiots! The Lord-Governor of Talassar still won't forgive the Legion for that piano stunt you pulled back on-"

Thade grinned: "…please repeat…will…_Invictorus _out…"

With the manual reboot nearly finished, I warmed Vicky's reactor to walking power and readied her for walking. _MIU ready. Welcome, Commander Lowe!_ "Argh."

With a whine of servos, Vicky tore out of our bivouac, scattering servitors and raising up a small cloud of mud from the rain the night before. I sniffed the air inside the cabin; Vicky's air-scrubbers were up to date, but I swore I could've smelled pine – oh. "Corrun, where'd you put the stupid thing this time?"

"Right outside the left-side cabin vents, boss," he responded. Corrun had a habit of sticking pine fresheners when I wasn't looking. I took them down when I could - I used to mind the smell, but since then it'd become a game for us (which I usually lost – Corrun was _much_ more familiar with Vicky than I was).

"Right, Osirus, you'n'me are going for some more exterior decoration after this is done!" I yelled out loud. _You still owe me for last time!_ he canted back.

I laughed. Life was good.

I slowed Vicky's backwards-jointed walk as I approached the command center. The site had come under near-constant attacks from various cultists, daemons, and other crazies who would sortie from the hive's outskirts. The killzones outside the site's defenses were littered with weapons and bodies, dotted with shrapnel, and pockmarked with craters from the Guard's siege mortars. For me, walking through it was…impressive.

Until you've led a Titan into a battlefield, you can't truly talk about the _sensation_ of war. With autosenses that can differentiate between different air molecules and identify the makeup of subatomic particles by smell alone, a battlefield takes on a whole new perspective. I could feel a femur crack under one of Vicky's toes, hear a rat half a klick away gnawing on a severed hand, see a cultist's body wrapped around a Guardsman in an obscene parody of a hug. _Nurglites..._

_Friendly contacts spotted, bearing 23.2 degrees range 117.54 meters_ "Ooh, time to scare the PDF!" Corrun grinned, tuning Vicky's war-horns to a particularly scary set of tribal yells that he'd recorded on Ichar IV. With freaky sounds blaring and inferno cannon glowing (always gets the ground-pounder's attention), Vicky advanced like the Angry Robot Chicken of Doom.

The PDF troopers were well dug in at the command center, with multiple bunkers overlapping razor-wired fields. Autocannons and heavy bolters poked out from firing slits, ready to rain death on any heretic brainless enough to attack the staging camp of a 'Hound pack.

Of course, with Vicky charging down the road, the PDF troopers screamed like girls and ran. Ah, fun times…

* * *

The fun ended far too soon as I skidded my girl to a halt in front of the Guard's comm. center, dipping my weapons in an mocking salute as Overseer Magrigge charged out.

_If his head gets any redder, it'll pop off and start flying 'round the room,_ Corrun observed. I couldn't disagree with him there, although my respect for the bastard rose several notches as he continued to hurl obscenities at a Warhound with a halfway-ignited inferno cannon.

"Aye, cap'n, we be disembarkin' over yonder," I called through Vicky's voice-casters, mentally nodding to Osirus. He began spindown as I settled Vicky down in an open parking space CRUNCH oops.

"You blind, half-witted, son of a scumsucking goat!" Magrigge bellowed from below. "While you're busy destroying my tanks, how about you try using my landers for target practice as well!"

_That's…actually a pretty good idea_, I mused, ignoring Thade's sudden jerk towards his laspistol. "I'm disembarking. You two, go wild." Corrun and Thade immediately disengaged from their positions, letting me send a private thought-burst to Osirus. He 'nodded,' and I slowly rose from the command seat, stretching my kinked-up back on the way. Piloting makes you blind to your flesh-body's needs, which can get _really _embarrassing when you need to take a leak. Thankfully, it also means I don't have to deal with the aftermath of a long drinking night unless I turn on the cockpit sensors.

Walking down the ladder the crew chief had just wheeled up, I took a look at Vicky from the outside. My girl had gotten fairly scratched up over the past week: the corruption, the constant fighting, the possessed Baneblade…it was a wonder that she was still in one piece, really.

"HALFWIT! CRAZY BASTARD! YOU…FLARGEN! HASSHOFF! OBRA-" Oh. Right. Magrigge had lost his vocabulary; not a good sign.

"Yarr, cap'n, we be ready 'n waitin' fer ye!" I stood in my best mock-salute as Magrigge stomped towards me, regaining his composure slightly. "Inside. Now." Not good.

Halfway expecting a bolt pistol to the head for my troubles, I entered the comm. center. The muted traffic of war continued as I surveyed the room: radio, servitor, officer, radio, statue, wait-

The dark red _thing_ that I'd mistaken for a statue moved: a Space Marine. A Librarian, too, judging by the psychic hood and general 'eat your soul' attitude; I mentally named him "Red." His eyes locked onto mine like laser sights, and I found I couldn't look away if I wanted to. "So…the little survivor," he muttered.

The gremlins in my head started chasing each other in circles. "Well, I'd always preferred 'Casanova,' but that's a good enough-" A psychic _wall_ slammed into my psyche "…shutting up now." The gremlins in my head started synchronized panicking, as I ran over my guilty actions of the past few weeks: drinking, drinking, suicidal behavior, murdering a commissar, more drinking… Red's bushy eyebrows lifted at my sudden recollection: "Hmm. A loyal servant of the Emperor, and you strike him down." The gremlins in my head broke out the torches and pitchforks. "Tell me, did you keep the nice hat?" I blinked; I'd expected summary execution for murdering a Commissar.

"Little pilot, your crimes are mundane when measured against the others in this room," the enigmatic Librarian responded quietly, tapping his head with an armored finger. "Him?" the gauntlet pointed towards an officer in the corner. "Rape and homicide. Her?" the gauntlet pointed towards a naval lieutenant. "Alcoholism, criminal delinquency."

_He knows_, I realized with a sudden epiphany of sorts. Red, able to read all of our unshielded surface thoughts, knew many of our dirty little secrets that we wanted to keep hidden. Of course, the Librarian wasn't stopping at surface thoughts. I could feel him poking around, clinically examining the dark places and no don't you dare touch that, _GET OUT. GET OUT OF MY HEAD._

"Or what, little pilot?" he casually responded. I used my 'insurance:' "Or my Techpriest fires _Invictorus_'s inferno cannon at this Emperor-damned box and we all get ashed." He decided to test me, breaking through my mental defenses until he was at the 'core' of my mind-

"Hmmm. Perhaps not so 'little,' Princeps." he remarked, quickly withdrawing his mind from mine. "Call your Techpriest off." I nodded mutely, tapping my commbead and muttering, "flargen!" into it. Osirus sent a relieved binary-blurt back at me, likely some form of poetry again. In the background, I could hear Vicky's warmed-up inferno cannon spinning down slowly.

Red once again focused his laser-like attention on me: "Your Titan stood against Nurgle's Blessing and survived," the Librarian calmly stated, the red-armored giant slowly pacing around me. "A disease which requires tens of thousands of willing sacrifices, a disease which could scour a hive or corrupt a battleship, is _wasted_ on a scout Titan." Despite my anger at his dismissing my girl, I couldn't move a muscle. "The question is, why? What do you possess, what quality do you hold-"

"-or what were you about to find?" another voice interrupted. With the extra-freaky Librarian distracted, I glanced towards the newcomer. Average height and build, well-groomed and fully shaved, expensive clothes and rings, bodyguard – oops, should have seen the Inquisitorial rosette sooner.

"Arr, ye knave, ye sent me crew out to fight the monsters with no words o' warning!" Despite my tone, I was truly angry. This Inquisitor _bastard_ had put my people in danger, had gotten my girl rotted up, and was probably about to do it again. Death by inferno cannon didn't sound bad at all now.

"And I'll do so again without hesitation. Your Titan has lived when few others would have. Tell me, what's your secret?" I struggled against the psychic bonds holding me fast, glaring at that damnably calm Inquisitor.

The Librarian spoke up again: "Machine proficiency. Negligible in other areas, but heightened ability to communicate with machine-spirits. Enough insanity to scare a Salvar Chem-Dog, and a little last-minute help from your psychic blank." "Bastard," I spat, still trying to break free.

"Princeps, I will make you a deal. I will provide official Inquisitorial sanction for your 'eccentricities' and those of your crew."

"And in exchange?" I responded.

"You help me. Go back into the hive, find what I'm looking for, and destroy it."

"And if I refuse?"

A sudden pressure at the back of my head. Laspistol. Again.

"You end up dead in the latrines outside. Your crew gets turned to servitors. Your choice?"

Not much of one. "I want a new coat of paint."

"What?"

"Not for me, dipwad. My girl deserves a new coat of paint after all you've put her through!"

The Inquisitor narrowed his eyes; the bastard probably wasn't used to people talking back to him. "Very well. Full pardons, immunity for future 'eccentricities,' and…a new coat of paint."

Free to move again, I turned back to Red. Both he and the _bastard_ were obviously waiting for a reply. "_Invictorus_'s sorties have come into contact with Nurglite and Tzeentchian forces in the same hive. Something's happening in there, important enough that the Great Manipulator is risking considerable assets to incite the hive and attack the Nurglite cultists."

Deep breath. "Since the reports of the other army groups indicate Tzeentchian forces at most points of contact around the city, with Nurgle's forces only spotted in this area, the object in contention is near this base. Considering that this particular base is the staging ground for a Titan city-fighting group, along with uplinks to an Astartes destroyer in low orbit, you've expected these events and brought appropriate countermeasures. More specifically: the blank that you brought down to save _Invictorus_ from daemon possession, our friend Red here" –a nod at the stone-silent Librarian– "and the Astartes teams waiting to drop."

Another deep breath. "Previous experience states that the object desired by Chaos is likely already tainted by it. This taint is generally suppressed somewhat by the Imperial faith, suggesting that the object is stored inside a significant, i.e. large and well-known, religious building. The prime building in this area fitting the requirements is the St. Arkady's Cathedral."

The Inquisitor turned to the Librarian, smiling. "Told you he was smart."

The Inquisitor's face crumpled slightly under my fist. "YOU BASTARD! YOU CRAZY MOTHER-HUMPING BASTARD! I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL RIP YOUR GUTS OUT AND DANCE NAKED IN THE MOONL-" whump. Ow.

Gazing up at the rockcrete ceiling, stomach vainly trying to crawl away from Red's fist, I watch as the _effing bastard_ rights himself. "Very well, Princeps. Since you appear to recognize the seriousness of our mission, I hope you can compose yourself before proceeding."

I aim, spit, and hit. The Inquisitor frowns at me: "Really, Tomas. I would have thought that you were above such petty acts."

I flex my limbs slowly. "My friends get to call me Tomas. If you knew me, you'd realize I'm a sunuvabitch."

The Inquisitor smiles; it's not a pleasant sight. "Yes, but you're MY sunavabitch. Now go out there and get me what I'm looking for."

"What am I trying to find, anyway?"

His faces creases slightly; he's lying about something. "You'll know it when you see it. Go-time is 0900 tomorrow."

Well, _crap_.

* * *

** Needless to say, Titans run on Windows Vista. Slow, cumbersome, and extremely deadly to everyone involved - a perfect match!


	6. Third Time's the Charm

"So, we simply have to go back into the same area that's nearly killed us twice, find an Eldritch Abomination which has got the Inquisition's panties in a bunch, and successfully escape from something which has gotten the attention of several Gods of Chaos?"

"Pretty much," I answer.

Corrun grins. "Sounds f_ing _amazing_! When do we start?"

"Corrun, have I ever told you that I appreciate your endless energy and boundless enthusiasm?"

"Every time you get drunk, boss."

"So…pretty much every day when we're not stuck with the cogboys, neh?"

He grins again. "Ay-yup!"

Corrun may be smiling, but Thade's looking grim, and Osirus…looks more cogboy-ish than usual. "The plan is simple. Advance to contact along this route" – running my hand along an roadway running fairly straight to the cathedral – "and pull back once we scare up enough enemies to justify the Astartes arriving. Once they secure the immediate area, continue advance to St. Arkady's here" – a fairly good-sized, ugly-as-hell-what-were-they-thinking sort of building. _Wonder if it was named after an ancestor of mine..._

Deep breath. "The Inquisitor has promised additional support, and has given us call-down powers for arty and air support. Thade, use those at your discretion. Astartes teams will handle the retrieval mission, so we'll provide overwatch in the area outside with some airdropped Guardsmen to help while the armored types do search and destroy on the interior."

I can feel my gorge rising: a nearly-solo advance, directly into the heart of contested territory, to secure a corrupted artifact which two Chaos Gods were fighting over. Archeotech? Warp-sorcery? Hell, the damn thing could be _anything_!

Wait…"Osirus, access local databases and look for the origin of the cathedral. I want to know build date, key figures involved in it, and any unexplained events there."

Osirus nods, moving towards a gaggle of Techpriests huddled around a nearby Chimera with a giant claw-mark in its center…oops.

* * *

It was dark outside when I finally stepped from the comm center. The base never really slept, and Guardsmen and Techpriests rushed around me on various errands. I sighed, watching a scout-team of Sentinels returning from a mission. _Ah, the good old days_…

…"of terrible food, no resupply, and suicide missions," the Inquisitor finished for me, stepping up beside me. Seeing my glare, he responded, "I can't read minds. I just read your file."

"Groxshit," I muttered back, turning to look at the Sentinels again. "Besides, you're still sending me on a suicide mission tomorrow."

"Maybe, maybe not. It depends on you."

"...the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?"

He grinned. "I'm an Inquisitor. A suicide mission makes more sense than defying one of my orders."

I cursed him out once again, before turning away. "Why? Why'd you save me before, why'd you send me out again, why'd you let me live after I threatened you with my Titan's guns?"

He pondered the question for a moment. "I need you. You're a survivor. I saw you living, fighting back, against a disease that has _never_ been stopped without a blank's help. It would have gotten to you, in time, but you fought anyway."

"I'm from the Guard. Hopeless, helpless fights are our specialty."

"I'm an Inquisitor. 'Hopeless struggles against insurmountable foes' is my job in a nutshell."

"I fight nasty gribblies that want to rape your soul."

"I fight human nature."

"Ouch."

An uncomfortable pause, both of us shifting as the twin suns went down and the air quickly chilled.

"Do you really mean it?"

"Mean what?"

"The pardons. Will you really give us pardons for this?"

The Inquisitor sighed; it looked like he'd aged two decades in an instant. "I am a rat bastard. I don't deny it – it comes with the unlimited power. At the same time, I try to keep my word." He fished a datachip out of his coat pocket. "My savant, in his usual obsessive-compulsive way, took all the relevant files that he could find. Brought them together, deleted the originals, organized the whole thing. Send this to the Arbites and they won't even bother with a show trial." He handed the chip to me. "It's the only copy."

I closed my hand around the chip. The Inquisitor glanced at me. "You're not going to smash it now?"

"Nope. I'm saving this for one of my crew to break."

He nodded. "Fair enough."

"So…what's _really_ in that cathedral?"

The Inquisitor paused. "To be honest…I don't know. What we do know is that the Emperor's Tarot speaks of some Cosmic Horror Beyond Mortal Comprehension, and that anyone with measurable psychic talent craps their pants when they scry on this place. Hive Tempestus is old, unfortunately, and deserves its name well. It's Heresy-era at minimum, maybe even older. There are many things buried in there which shouldn't see daylight again."

"Considering that I'm psychic myself, I'm surprised that I don't feel a thing."

"Pish. On a psyker scale, you rate below Tertius-level. Mostly, though, you're crazy."

"And that matters how?"

The Inquisitor laughed. "Librarian Morris compared probing your head to clearing a minefield with a half-meter stick."

I glared at him, though without much malice in it. He was right, after all. "Bastard."

"Ay-yup."

* * *

Leaving the Inquisitor behind after yet another uncomfortable silence, I bumped into my crew coming back from the comm bunker. Corrun's eyes were bright and his smile upbeat, but I could see the pre-battle jitters already overtaking him. Thade remained stoic, but his shifting feet betrayed his feelings. Osirus…I decided I didn't want to ask.

"Find anything interesting on the cathedral, Osirus?"

"St. Arkady's Cathedral is a mystery, wrapped in a juicy enigma and sprinkled with conspiracy and controversy."

"Mmmmm…sounds tasty. Construction date?"

"Unknown."

"Reason for construction?"

"Unknown."

"Anyone interesting buried there?"

"No. In fact, _no one_ seems to be buried there. All various VIP corpses end up at a monastery outside of the hive."

I pondered that for a moment. With ten thousand years to fill up the various burial sites, it was a wonder that the Cathedral didn't have its own good-sized mausoleum. Still, it should make the Asstarts clear the place faster.

"Alright, crew, certain death tomorrow, so get a good night's sleep tonight!"

Corrun laughed; for once, it sounded forced. Thade said nothing, his eyes still boring into mine.

"Tomas, this really is suicide. You know this." Thade's tone was quiet, but I could see the fear in his eyes. I could feel my own gorge rising, honestly: it _was _a one-way mission. We're the sacrificial lamb, bait for ambushes and shield for the Assturds. The moment Nurgle's Blessing hit _Invictorus_, we were tainted in the Imperium's eyes, forsaken by anyone with a grain of sense. It's crazy.

Wait...that's _it_.

"Change of plans. We're doing this differently."

* * *

Standard Guard doctrine calls for slow advances through enemy-held hives, with infantry methodically clearing a path while supported with artillery and armor. That's the sane way of clearing city areas.

Of course, there _are_ other ways of getting through.

_Current speed 56.2 kilometers/hour, leg motivators within acceptable tolerances_ as Vicky sprints through the hive. The void shield ripples and pulses as rockets and explosives detonate against it, but the shields were designed to handle far worse than infantry-held weapons.

_AT mine right side, 45.2 meters_ as Osirus pours every scrap of logic-engine power, including his own mind, into spotting explosives. Infantry-sized weapons can't break the voids, but buried explosives can. So far, we've been lucky.

_Alert! Roadway missing, 324.3 meters and closing_ as Vicky draws my attention to a massive gap in the roadway ahead, girders and rockcrete draping into the depths below. It's a measly 10-meter gap, and I simply make sure to get good footing before making the leap. It isn't a major impediment, but the hole in the roadway does slow down the various pursuers, who are firing from groundcars like they do in the holovids. Seriously, didn't any of these idiots know that shooting a _Titan_ with small arms wouldn't work too well?

Wait…they're baiting me. _Switch to new course, people! We're going up and over…there!_ I shift Vicky's bulk as Thade gives an audible squeak and Osirus binary-blurts something rude. A collapsed Arbites structure looms in front of me, the sturdy building partially wrecked but still standing.

_Osirus, find me structural hardpoints!_ and several highlighted sites pop up just as I reach the building, the cultists still firing wildly behind me. Thade's voxing our previous coordinates to a Basilisk battery as we continue up the floors, my footing precarious. Carefully 'reaching' for each point, I finally reach far enough over the building to 'leap' the building.

_Invictorus_ barely clears the squat structure, void shields absorbing the fall on the other side _void shields depleted, recharging in .4 minutes_. Still, we're free of enemies momentarily, and I slow slightly to let the voids recharge. The ground shakes under the heavy Basilisk shells impacting against those idiot cultists, and I pause to check the area…_Scan complete, no hostiles detected_ and it looks like the surrounding area is likely free of-

**KA-BOOM!**

The ground rumbles, the roadway buckling in several areas. Vicky rides out the shaking, thankfully _internal gyros resetting, please remain still for 5 seconds._ I peer through Vicky's rear-facing autosenses: the Arbites building is now mostly gone, along with a fairly good-sized chunk of roadway which we were about to cross – and the nearby cultists. Hey, cool!

"F_ing _awesome_!" Corrun yells, fist-pumping as Osirus blurts several choice Mechanicus curses. _Looks like our late friends were trying to chase us onto that party favor back there,_ I 'think' to the others. _Use alternate routes in case that one has more friends of his tonnage._ I glance down the much smaller road that we've just ended up on.

Our new road is waaay too small, and perfectly wrong for a 'Hound: too narrow for weapons to traverse properly, tall enough for infantry to attack with impunity, and the surrounding buildings are too weak for me to walk on like I did with the Arbites structure. _Groovy_. Since it's such an obviously bad route, though, I continue advancing on it; I'm more worried about mines than about infantry attack, at least for now.

_Void shields at 53.7-percent charge_ as I speed up Vicky's steps again. Time to get to that damn church.

* * *

The cultists are gathering again as I continue sprinting towards St. Arkady's. Thade can't update the sensor picture too well at this speed, but I can _feel_ the bastards, hear the breathing and stomping of feet as the zombies, corrupted PDF, and other various gribblies pursue us. _They're drawing us in – probably think we're a scout._

Corrun has fired on the occasional target, but tracking infantry-sized targets is tough at a full sprint. _Distance to target, 237 meters and closing_ and I can see the target building…along with the small horde assembled in front of it.

_Gentlemen?_ Corrun readies the inferno cannon for a full burn, as Osirus diverts power from the reactor. Slowing as I approach the square, I watch for the usual clotheslines. _There!_ Two cables are strung across the street; Chaos is good at things like "organized butchery," less so at things like "advanced manufacturing." They never pass up the chance to capture a Titan when possible, no matter if the odds are terrible.

The cables snap up when I step into the courtyard, but Osirus's extra 'modifications' work fine: Space Marine-sized chainswords attached to Vicky's 'thighs' let me saw through the steel, as long as I aim carefully. The small horde of Plaguebearers charges me as soon as I break through, but I signal Corrun, letting him handle the distraction while I look for the real threat.

_Inferno cannon temporarily exhausted, recharging_ as Corrun ceases fire. I look back to see a bubbling mass of cobblestones, clothing, and flesh. "Nice hit, let's draw them in." I continue advancing into the courtyard, finally standing in front of the cathedral itself. Turning to face outward, I can see a small horde of Nurglite daemons approaching: more Plaguebearers, Nurglites, and even a couple bigger ones mixed in as well. Against a force this size, even without that miracle disease they used last time, Vicky doesn't stand a chance.

_Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh…_

Switching to a vertical-facing camera, I can see contrails arcing through the thin atmosphere. Tilting Vicky's head back and cranking her war-horns to full, I raise my boast to the sky.

"**HALLELUJAH!"**

The approaching Nurglite horde slows slightly, uncertainty appearing on the faces of the smarter ones.

"**IT'S RAINING MEN!"**

And the first Astartes drop-pods hit.


	7. Into the Good Night

For those of you lucky enough to avoid encounters with the Emperor's Space Marines, please allow me to give you a little bit of advice if you do happen to meet them:

_RUN AWAY._

See, it isn't the half-meter-thick armor plating they wear, the meters-long rocket launchers they carry as 'sidearms,' or their ridiculously enhanced senses and reaction times that make them so frightening. It isn't their ceramite-enhanced bones, or incredibly fast powered armor, or their millennia-old, scary effective combat tactics.

It's what they've _seen_. They've been to more battlefields than you, fought more enemies than you, and killed enough foes to make a Bloodthirster envious. They _know_ how you'll fight, often even before you do. You can't scare them, you can't fight them, and you definitely can't outrun them.

One hundred of these man-monsters dropped from orbit into the milling Nurglite horde. Drop pods smashed into Plaguebearer packs, the pods' psychotic cargo carving up the remaining daemons. The force had been guided by the locator beacon I'd hastily welded onto Vicky's head before shipping out, although I think the Assault Marines were steering by the bullseye I'd painted up there as well.

Bolters boomed, chainswords flew, and vox-enhanced voices shouted prayers as the Marines began their work. Dropped in a circular pattern around the Cathedral, their objective would be to clear the area before closing on the cathedral to do search-and-destroy on the interior. Corrun was manually firing Vicky's Vulcan megabolter at large concentrations of enemies, laying waste to the bigger gribblies. "Incoming." Thade's voice dragged me away from the mostly one-sided slaughter outside.

The vox crackled: "_Invictorus_, Guardsmen are deploying now. Designate LZ and offer support." _Friendly aircraft bearing 34.2-degrees, range 481.6 meters_ and the support showed up. A small cloud of Valkyrie and Vendetta gunships appeared over the horizon, doubtlessly launched at the same time as the Astartes in their insane-crazy-pods. _Target designated, transmitting now_ as I stomped over to a better position.

Good old Guard. Give me a choice, I'll work with a good Imperial Guard regiment over Marines any day. Marines _always_ have their own agenda, go charging around on their own, and don't give a hoot whether you're being shot at or not. Ask Marines for support and they'll say something profound like "Pain does not hurt." Guardsmen don't have layers of plasteel and ceramite to keep them safe, so they have to rely on innovative things like "taking cover" and "calling for fire support." Plus, I can run away faster than they can.

_Friendly aircraft landing in LZ, advise caution_ and I remember the real reason that I appreciate Guardsmen: they take and _hold_. The Guardsmen spilled out of the transports, dragging heavy weapons and toting explosives-filled backpacks. I glanced around the position: the Marines were continuing their bloody advance towards the church, while the Guardsmen and I tag-teamed the square. This op actually seemed to be working-

"Tomas, look." _Friendly Titan spotted, Emperor-class, positive ID: Herakles._

Oh. Shit.

You never forget an Emperor-class Titan. Each Emperor takes up its own massive landing craft, large enough to house a world's tithe of Guardsmen. It's a walking armory of heavy weapons, with enough shields to be its own planetary defense and with guns that can win duels with Navy ships in orbit. An Emperor-class's weapons could wipe out Vicky's shields and armor with a single blast, and some of its weapons can destroy a kilometers-high hive in one shot. When the lander arrives from orbit, still glowing from reentry and lowering the walking cathedral to the surface, you understand why the local Ecclesiarchy will compose some new hymn for the occasion.

Whatever was buried in St. Arkady's, it was important enough that the Legio Command would risk our one remaining Emperor-class to fight it. _The Inquisitor must have a lot of dirt on our Legion_…

**THUMP.**

Even without Vicky's pinpoint autosenses, I could feel the impact of the _Herakles_ landing over ten kilometers away. "Everyone? This is bad," I announced, to my crew's total lack of surprise. "Thade, contact HQ and request permission to evac."

"And if they don't let us, boss?"

"Corrun, if they try to stop us, we burn that damn church and run for it. Whatever's in there, if it needs an Emperor-class to kill, I'm not staying around to fight it."

_Warning! Multiple projectiles detected, void shields at 96.2-_percent and my reality _Shifts_ back to Vicky as several corrupted humans with crew-served weapons start firing on my girl. I turn _Invictorus_ to face the cultists while Corrun fires the inferno cannon. _Corrun, status on weapons?_

_Not too good, boss. Inferno cannon is still A-OK for now, but it's been pretty iffy when planetside. Megabolter shells down to one quarter; the cogboys didn't bring enough for this planet's party, so we came here with low hoppers._

_Lovely_, I sigh. _Thade, status on Command?_ He just sighs. Crap. I decide to take full responsibility for this; there's no reason my crew should suffer with me. "Corrun, target the church and fire."

Corrun's always been religious, so he pauses before firing. _Inferno cannon firing, 2-seond blast_. I scan the church: _blast deflected by void shields, origin unknown_.

Oh. Shit. Again.

**THUMP.** The tower at the front of St. Arkady's Cathedral shudders, tilting precariously to the side. It slowly begins to rise out of the ground, accompanied by a corpse-like green gas.

**THUMP. **The cathedral…_isn't_. That massive, ugly building is the top eighth of a very big Titan. Considering all the rot-bags running around, I can guess who it works for. "HEADS UP! WE! ARE! LEAVING!"

**THUMP. **I turn Vicky to run, sidestepping at the last moment to avoid a massive faultline shattering much of the courtyard _holyEmperorthatsa__gun_, veering to the right as the Nurglite Emperor-class Titan hauls itself from its 10,000-year-old tomb.

* * *

The building was on fire, and it wasn't my fault.

…

Really!

_Void shields eroding, current strength 93.4%_ as I dash out from the flaming wreck. Half-rotting cultists throw homemade explosives and steel cables across Vicky's path as I continue pounding across the courtyard. As I turn the corner, the entire area I just exited erupts in flame _Warning! Projected damage from successful hit against this unit will likely result in engine destruction! _craaaaaaaap.

OK, maybe the building _was_ my fault.

Peering back through Vicky's autosenses, I can see the Titan's weapons (each gun several times longer than my girl) swing up towards the horizon. I feel kind of insulted, but against a monster like that I don't even have a hope or a prayer of touching it, and whatever's up in that cockpit knows it too. Still, that means I'm free from the bastards, and with a little luck the Inquisitor won't shoot me either!

"Yarrr, cap'n, we dug up yonder bogeyman. We'll leave ye to yer demon-slaying!" I shout into the vox. No response; he's probably too busy. _Alright, people, let's MOVE! The giants are fighting, and it's time for us ants to run!_

**BOOM.**

_Warning! Impact detected, major damage projected in all torso-based sys-_

My MIU jerked, unceremoniously dumping me from realtime, as Vicky's plasma reactor shuddered and died. My head spun, and I could hear Osirus yelling and banging on the bulkhead with a wrench – according to him, it's an ancient Ork maintenance ritual. Do I believe it? Yes, yes I do.

"Attention. Anomalous energy signature detected." Vicky's impersonal voice echoed through the cockpit, and a tight ball of fear started forming in my gut. I slowly peered through the Vulcan gun-cam, panning the fuzzy image around.

The massive, rotting monstrosity had climbed from its ancient tomb, the Emperor-class weapons presumably firing at the faraway _Herakles_. Its voids extended outwards, passing over Vicky's corpse and imprisoning us and the stranded Guardsmen. The gunships buzzed impotently around the shields, unable to return for their human cargo, while Osirus desperately managed the reactor controls as he tried to get power back to my girl.

_Invictorus_ and our impromptu guardians were near the corrupted monster's left leg. Slowly, sounding more like ripping flesh than anything mechanical, the great door on the Titan's leg began to open. A regular Emperor-class Titan carried a half-company of Guardsmen inside each leg; this one was different. Inside, some Thing stirred.

It was…hell, I couldn't describe it. I could see infinities inside, could see real-time collapsing and forming countless times. I saw me and the crew aging and dying a thousand times over, twisting and tearing under stresses no mortal could ever bear. It was a Gate to the Warp, and reality was its bitch.

The Guardsmen formed up and turned towards the opening Gate, readying lasguns and fixing bayonets. The rift swelled and stabilized, and Warp-stuff slowly twisted itself into shapes and forms.

The daemons were here.

A rotting, decaying horde poured towards the thin line of Imperial Guardsmen. Tiny, animate balls of rot bounced alongside shambling horrors and massive amalgamations of flesh. Emperor help me, I still see those things when I try to sleep. Despair preceded them and devastation followed in their wake.

The horde poured out of the gate, flooding over the ground, reaching the thin line of Guardsmen – and stopped. A veritable wall of lasbolts halted them where they stood, concentrated light searing away corruption and breaking rotting bones. Lines of flame darted out from the veterans, burning packs of Nurgle's children where they stood, while plasma blasts tore groups apart and frag grenades sent storms of shrapnel through the packed masses.

It was brave, glorious…and futile. The flood of daemons was limitless, and the Guardsmen's clips were not. They fired until their lasguns were dry and their flamers sputtered. When the daemons continued to charge, they detonated mines and threw grenades. When the mines had gone and the grenades were out, the demons paused only to gloat, taunting the Guardsmen and promising death. The Guardsmen grabbed bayonets and charged.

They were humans, fighting entropy itself and rot made real. They had no hope of victory, no chance of winning. They fought anyway. I saw them smashing Nurglings with rifle butts, beating Plaguebearers with shovels – hells, I saw a Great Unclean One thrashing, a knife-wielding Guardsman wrapped around its neck.

It wasn't enough.

I heard screaming, and realized it was me, Vicky's war-horns turning it into a mythic yell. Her mega-bolter was dry, but I fired it anyway, the _clunk_ of each empty chamber pounding in my heart. _I failed them. I had another chance to set things right, and I failed just like before._ "Godsdamnit, you piece of groxs_t, work! Get up and-"

"Tomas, I'm sorry."

"What?"

I looked behind me to see Osirus entering the cockpit, head bowed. "Reactor seals have blown, the machine spirits have left us, and batteries are nearly dry. We're finished."

"So…that's it, then." I exhaled slowly, pulling my consciousness away from external cams. I couldn't look anymore. "It's been an honor, everyone." I reached below my seat, and pulled out the datachip the Inquisitor gave me that eternity ago, yesterday.

"Osirus, here's the last copy of the evidence."

He stared at it, uncomprehending. "What?"

"The evidence. No other copies. You're free. It's over." I tossed the datachip to him.

He appeared lost in thought. "I…"

"Really? I expected a 'woo-hoo!' at least."

He turned the chip over. "I think…I think I'll hold on to this. The evidence may be gone from the books, but..."

I nodded. "Fair enough." I looked at my 'rats. "Same goes for you two. Everything's cleared, you're free from anything else."

Corrun grinned broadly. "I was free long before I got out. They can only hold you prisoner if you let them."

Thade…smiled. Continuing that trend, pigs started flying and the Warp decided to make sense.

Heh. Leaning back and closing my eyes, I waited for the end.

* * *

"Hey." An unfamiliar voice; my eyes flew open in surprise.

A strangely familiar man stood in front of me; he was tall and lanky, with a weather-beaten face and grizzled brown hair. He was plainly dressed in a dark blue jacket, with a single star on the left side. A bionic eye supplemented his remaining natural one, and a small needler-pistol hung by his side.

I'd never seen him before, yet I knew him.

"Lowe," I stated flatly.

"The same," he genially responded. "You've done well, my boy."

"I don't want your sympathy!" I snapped back. "You bastards are why I have to drive this thing, instead of one of the regular Princeps! You're the reason I got dragged from my Sentinel and from my people! Your bleed-over in the MIU is _literally_ killing me!"

He didn't seem offended. "And yet you've still fought."

…_to hide the emptiness. _"I don't know anything else."

"A bit of advice, from a too-old Princeps?"

I nodded.

"When all else fails, stand by your ship and your crew."

"…the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"You've stood by your crew." Behind him, shapes and shadows gathered. "Our turn."

I could see them: dozens, then hundreds of Vicky's former Princeps. Veers, Adamska, Ts'ai-

…and reality _Shifted_ to bite me in the ass.

* * *

No MIU, no syncing, no go-between. Right here and now, I am _Invictorus_. My reactor quickly snarls to life, new energy coursing through my legs and shields. I leverage myself up with a sudden jerk, balancing precariously on shaky legs.

The daemons turn to face me, readying plenty of nasty surprises – just in time to catch my inferno cannon at full burn. It had been buried under me after my reactor quit, but now it's free and I use it with a vengeance.

"BURN! BURN! BURN!" My war-horns bellow, my wrecked reactor somehow chugs on, and I stumble towards the mythical monster in front of me.

* * *

I don't try to fight the Nurglite Titan in front of me, since "fighting" it would imply that I could do more than piss it off. Still, with its void shields extended to stop the _Herakles'_s iron rain, the Titan is – technically – vulnerable to me.

Heh. A regular Emperor-class's armor is tough enough to stand up to my inferno cannon indefinitely, and a Nurglite one is even tougher. I'm not aiming to kill the Titan, though. I want revenge.

The Titan's cavernous leg is still open, new daemons popping out of the Gate inside. I stumble onward, sweeping away the scattered gribblies in front of me with my empty megabolter. The Gate to the Warp is as large as me, and I shuffle towards it.

I reach the steps at the bottom of the leg, digging in my clawed feet to gain leverage. I take the human-sized steps fifteen at a time, occasionally burning daemons trying to get in my way. The Gate looms at the top, and I burn it with my one remaining weapon, the Gate warping as cannon-flames wash over it.

I can feel additional impacts on my back – my voids are down again. The Astartes are closing through the Titan's extended shields, but with the Gate open, they'll be overrun just like the Guardsmen were.

_NO!_ I yell, dropping power to void generators, and pushing every scrap of energy I can get into the flame. Slowly, slowly the Gate shifts, the insult to reality shrinking and fading as the heat and energy destabilizes it.

With a thunderous **Boom**, the Gate collapses, sucking several unlucky daemons back into the Warp. I nearly collapse, held up as much by the attacking daemons as by my unnatural plasma reactor. I look at my systems: shields out, megabolter dry, comms gone, plasma reactor power dying fast… Crap. When the power dies, I go with it. I fight to stay awake; I know I have to do _some_thing before the end, even if I can't remember it. Gate closed, the Asstarts-

OH. I quickly check comms: my comm systems were fried by the battle, but the locator beacon is still functioning, if unpowered. I re-route energy to restart the beacon, feeling for its pulse. _Good._

Exhausted, I collapse as the telltale _pop_s of incoming teleports echo around me. I barely notice the Marines clearing the area, while Terminators teleport onto the Titan and begin their assault on the interior.

Bolters sing and voices yell, the enemy Titan's war-horns bellow in agony, and another wave of drop-pods hit as the Nurglite Titan's voids drop. In the middle of the chaos, as Imperials yell the Emperor's name and Navy bombers roar overhead, my head drops while the reactor dies a second death.

I can dimly feel Thade pounding on my flesh-body, as Osirus starts his limited medical subroutines. _Warning! Heart rate is flat, seek medical attention immediately!_

Hey, Vicky. Good to hear your voice again.


	8. Epilogue

Tell me if you've heard this before. Hospital bed. Blank wall. Lumens in the ceiling. Strange machines which go 'beep' when you're trying to sleep. Space Marine in the corner...buh waitasec.

The red-armored Marine, on seeing me awake, disappeared out of the room's small door. I looked around, trying to take stock. _Hmm, arms and legs where they should be…_my mental voice faded away as I looked at my chest. Wires trailed off from a large implant in my abdomen, and I could see the black tendrils of military-grade implants stretching beneath skin and bone.

"The sleeper awakens!" the Inquisitor announced dramatically, breezing through the door. "Bastard," I growled back, too confused to give him a decent reply. Unfazed by my opening salvo, he seated himself in one of the terminally-uncomfortable chairs you find in any hospital room. "And how do you find Imperial Navy hospitality today, honored Princeps?" the Inquisitor asked melodramatically.

"Shitty as ever and the food's even worse," I grumbled back. "The hell happened down there?"

"Short answer? You did good."

"Long answer?"

"Ahem," he responded, clearing his throat and unrolling a vellum scroll. "Be it known that Princeps Tomas of the Legio Gryphonicus distinguished himself exactly one month prior to Feast-Day against the vile machinations of the Great Enemy in the field of battle, bringing death and ruination to the Emperor's foes through glorious combat, where he-"

"Goit. Shut up now."

He smirked. "You found the Cosmic Horror, destroyed the main summoning Gate that the cultists had been using, and delivered a teleporter beacon close enough for the Astartes to get aboard the Titan and sabotage it."

"Fine." The events played themselves out through my mind, and I fervently wished that they didn't. The suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame – I just wanted to leave it behind.

"Tell them I'm done."

He quirked an eyebrow at that. "Say again?"

"I quit. I've served my time, I'm ready to leave."

"You _do_ realize that the Legio searched for years before finding anyone able to pilot _Invictorus_?"

"I. Don't. Care," I snarled, heedless of the consequences of telling off an Inquisitor. I ripped off my thin blanket, exposing my new organs to the world. "My heart stopped, and they replaced it. What happens next? When I lose an arm, a leg? I don't want to become one of them!"

The Inquisitor appeared unruffled. "Surely fear of Techpriests is hardly your worst problem."

"I'm done," I sighed. "The Marines can do this shit for decades without problems, but I'm not a Marine. I've watched too many friendlies die, killed too many enemies – hells, Vicky will kill me in a few years if the Legion doesn't!"

The Inquisitor grew serious. "I know. I'm here because of that."

"So? Something tells me you're not helping me out of the goodness of your heart."

"Fair enough," he responded amiably. "I'm here to give you a job offer."

I laughed in his face. Predictably, I found myself gazing down the awfully-wide barrel of a bolt pistol. _Those things make a convincing argument from here._

"Careful," he remarked quietly. "I'm here because the Legio is washing their hands of you."

"So? That's great! They scrub Vicky, I go home!"

"Not exactly. _Invictorus_ and her potential corruption has become a political hobble. Without my help, the Governor would've refused to repair the other Titans of the Legion. You're a danger to Imperial society wherever you go, and you'd only go home in a casket."

"Get corrupted once and it's game over, I guess?"

"More or less," he responded. "Imperial authorities are justifiably paranoid about Nurgle's Rot, and they can't know of the purification measures that I have available."

"Your pet blank, you mean?"

"Exactly. Rest assured that you pilot a clean Titan."

"Well, whoop-de-frakking-doo," I sourly shot back. "What do you want me for, anyway?"

He relaxed; the bastard knew he'd won. "I need backup. You and your 'tainted' crew will live aboard my ship, and give me help on the ground when I need it."

"You have a ship that can seat a Warhound? Damn."

He smiled thinly. "The previous captain found himself…somewhat lacking in his duties to the Imperium." Scary bastard.

"Fine. You win."

He rose, waving coyly as he left. "Be seeing you." I sighed, throwing my head back against the pillows. _Shiiiiiiit…_

* * *

My crew visited me eventually, and I broke the news. We'd all been secretly expecting the "laspistol to the head" treatment, so they took the news fairly well. I relaxed, trying to not worry about it. Time would – hopefully – heal the wounds that we'd suffered out there.

Three days after I woke, however, I had a more unexpected visitor. Another red-armored giant – the Librarian, Morris. "Hey," I greeted, unwilling to make an effort for the Marine.

"Princeps," he grunted back. An uncomfortable silence passed for some time.

"Why're you here?" I finally asked.

"I wished to… thank you," he quietly responded.

"For what?"

"You closed the Gate and brought my men through the enemy's guns. Many more Marines would have died that day but for your actions."

"Well, FRAK YOU!" I yelled back. "Your pretty-boys did just fine, but how many Guardsmen lived?"

His eyes flashed – literally. "None."

"Exactly," I responded. "Then I failed."

"Space Marines lived."

"And who gives a flying frak?"

"I do," he shot back. "I felt them die, Princeps. I saw their last moments and heard their last thoughts. I regret those Guardsmens' deaths more than you do, because I _know_ who they were and how they fell."

I didn't have a response to that. The Librarian continued quietly, "A Warhound against an Imperator? It's a miracle simply that you lived. Take your victories as they are."

"I can't," I responded again. "I can't keep going. I've fought too much, gone too far, killed too many. I'm done."

"Only in death does duty end," he recited.

"Maybe for you," I shot back. "I'm a regular old human. For me, duty isn't for life."

"No!" he bellowed. "Duty is eternal! We fight humanity's enemies, and our work does not end until they do!"

"Heh," I responded weakly, stunned slightly by the Librarian's physical and psychic outburst. "Fine, then. Tell me, where were you when my home burned?"

The Librarian's eyes glowed again, and I saw black.

_I can see Home again. The old hab-block, south steps still crumbling and the scrumball court as scuffed-up as ever. Kids are walking home from the schola, the sun's warm on my shoulders, and the sky is clear for once._

_I breathe deep, savoring the fresh air. The Techpriests have finally gotten the equator purification units working again, and the atmo is the cleanest that it's been in years. Seeing Johnny's, our local recaf shop, and-_

_RUMBLE._

_I look up. The sky is darkening, a fleshy rain blotting out the sun. I turn to run, even as others point up at the danger. I know what's coming, and I want to see Home one more time before it gets here._

_Jumping up the stairs two by two, I dash into apartment 3-C as the first spores hit. They are there, even if it's not them, not truly. "Hey, I'm home!" I yell, and they turn as the first spores hit dirt._

_I hold onto them, even as a falling pod crushes the hab-block and the 'nids overrun Latium, Leviathan's assault crushing Gryphonne III and overrunning-_

I gasped as the realtime dream faded, reality coming fitfully back to me. "BASTARD!" I yelled. "That _shit_ wasn't even real!"

"True," the Librarian answered. "You experienced the memories of a teenager on Gryphonne III, mixed with your own."

"Why?" I asked mournfully. I'd never gotten over losing Home.

"To remind you why you fight. You serve so that others don't have to."

"Hells," I muttered. "I…"

"Will serve," the Librarian finished for me. "Fight to keep another Home from burning."

"Spoken like a true Marine."

He laughed. "You'd make a good Marine too if you didn't whine so much."

* * *

With Corrun's arm on my left and Osirus's mechadendrite on my right, I walked into the sunlight again. A specialized lander had already lifted Vicky skyward, and my crew steered me towards a nearby Arvus lighter. As the craft shot towards orbit, I looked out over the ruined hive. The Nurglite Titan had created a massive imprint when it fell, and smoke still curled from its twice-dead corpse. The Librarian's psychic echo still resounded in my mind, and I felt myself wondering how many Homes like mine had been crushed down there. "Damn…"

As the lander arced away from the surface, I got my first good look at my new digs. The former Rogue Trader ship had been repurposed by my new boss, and served as an "oh shit" measure that nearby Inquisitors could call on for help. For the life of me, I still don't know how he managed to pull my mechanics away from the Legion, but they'd come as well.

I looked around. I still had my girl, my crew, and a purpose. The Princeps' words echoed in my mind: _If nothing else, stand by your crew. _As the lander decelerated to dock, dwarfed by the massive ship in front of it, I made up my mind.

My name is Tomas Arkady, Princeps of _Invictorus_. With autocannon and flamer, with fusion cannon and megabolter I have killed enemies beyond counting. I have fought the Great Enemy and smashed his war-machines. And yea, though I enter the Gates of the Warp, I shall fear no evil, because I am driving a 50-foot giant of _frak you_.

"Hey, Corrun - what's for dinner?"

* * *

…_aaaand that's all folks! This was my first fic, and I want to thank everyone who read or reviewed it as I went. I can still see plenty of cringe-worthy bits in earlier chapters, but your reviews and PMs have really helped fix it up._

_I started writing this initially to pass time during a boring summer, but this fic grew on me as I went. Rest assured that Tomas and his merry band of psychos have returned for more murder and mayhem in "A Man and His Titan!" (it's just too much fun to write about Titan stompy goodness! :D) So if you have anything that you'd like to see included or changed, just leave a review or PM me and I'd be happy to listen!_

_-Norwest_


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